of hell, riding
slack-rein to a new perdition. The snow swirled tormented, and wrapped
us both in its grey smother. Hands seemed to pull at me out of the
darkness, lifted me up, and flung me down again on my face in the smoor
of the snow. A great access of fear fell on me. As the gust overpassed,
I rose, choked and gasping. Overhead I could hear the mighty blast go
roaring and howling away among the crags and rocks of Arthur's Seat.

Then I arose, shook the snow from my dress, glanced at the barrels and
cocks of my pistols to see that they were not stopped with snow, and
stepped out of the angle of the Bow to look after my cousin. To my utter
astonishment, he was standing within four feet of me. He held some dark
thing in his hand, and stared open-mouthed at it, as one demented.
Without remembering that I had come out at my lady's bidding to follow
Wat Gordon secretly, I stepped up to him till I could look over his
shoulder.

"Walter!" I said, putting my hand on his arm.

But he never minded me in the least, nor yet appeared surprised to find
me there. Only a black and bitter horror sat brooding on his soul.

He continued to gaze, fascinated, at the dark thing in his hand.

"GOD--GOD--GOD!" he sobbed, the horror taking him short in the throat.
"Will, do you see THIS?"

Such abject terror never have I heard before nor since in the utterance
of any living man.

"Do you see This?" he said. "See what fell at my feet as I came through
the arch of the Bow upon mine errand! The wind brought it down."

Above the moon pushed her way upwards, fighting hard, breasting the
cloud wrack like a labouring ship.

Her beams fell on the dark Thing in Wat Gordon's hand.

"GREAT GOD!" he shouted again, his eyes starting from their sockets, "IT
IS MINE OWN FATHER'S HEAD!"

And above us the fitful, flying winds nichered and laughed like mocking
fiends.

It was true. I that write, saw it plain. I held it in this very hand. It
was the head of Sir John of Lochinvar, against whom, in the last fray,
his own son had donned the war-gear. Grizzled, black, the snow cleaving
ghastly about the empty eye-holes, the thin beard still straggling
snow-clogged upon the chin--it was his own father's head that had fallen
at Walter Gordon's feet, and which he now held in his hand.

Then I remembered, with a shudder of apprehension, his own words so
lately spoken--"Heaven and hell shall not cause me to break my tryst
to-night."

Walter Gordon stood rooted there, dazed and dumb-foundered, with the
Thing in his hand. His fine lace ruffles touched it as the wind blew
them.

I plucked at him.

"Come," I said, "haste you! Let us bury it in the Holyrood ere the moon
goes down."

Thus he who boasted himself free of heaven and hell, had his tryst
broken by the Thing that fell from the ghastly gate on which the
traitors' heads are set in a row. And that Thing was the head of the
father that begat him.

CHAPTER XV.

THE BICKER IN THE SNOW.

Then, seeing Walter Gordon both agitated and uncertain which way to
turn, I took out of his shaking hands the poor mishandled head, wrapping
it in my plaid, and so led the way down the Canongate towards the
kirkyard of the Chapel of Holyroodhouse, where it seemed to me most safe
to bury the Thing that had fallen in such marvellous fashion at our feet
that night.

The place I knew well enough. I had often meditated there upon the poor
estate of our house. It was half ruinous, and I looked to meet with no
man within the precincts on such a night. But short, deceiving, and
ostrich-blind are all our hopes, for by going that way I brought us into
the greatest danger we could possibly have been in.

For, as we came by the side port of Holyroodhouse, and took the left
wynd which leads to the kirkyard, it seemed that I heard the sound of
footsteps coming after me. It was still a night of snow, but the blast
of flakes was wearing thinner and the wind less gusty. The moon was
wading among great white-edged wreaths as though the snows had been
driven right up to heaven and were clogging the skies.

It was I who led, for my cousin, Wat Gordon, being stopped dead in his
heart's desire, like a dog quivering for the leap that suddenly gets his
death-wound, now went forward as one blind, and staggered even in the
plain places. Also, it was well that I must guide him, for thus I was
kept from thinking of the horrid burden I carried.

We were at the angle of the wall, and going slowly down among the
cumbering heaps of rubbish by the dyke-side, when I certainly heard,
through the soughing of the wind, and the soft swirl of the snow-flakes,
the quick trampling of footsteps behind us. It seemed to me that they
came from the direction of the Queen's Bathhouse, by which, as I now
minded, my Lord Wellwood had built his new house.

I turned in my tracks, and saw half a dozen of fellows running towards
us with their swords drawn; and one who seemed short of stature and ill
at the running, following after them. Then I pulled quickly at Walter's
sleeve, and said:

"Get you to a good posture of defence, or we are both dead men. See
behind you!"

At this he turned and looked, and the sight seemed wonderfully to steady
him. He seemed to come to himself with a kind of joy. I heard him sigh
as one that casts off a heavy back-burden. For blows were ever mightily
refreshing to Wat Gordon's spirits, even as water of Cologne is to a
mim-mouthed, spoiled beauty of the court.

As for me, I had no joy in blows, and little skill in them, so that my
delight was small. Indeed, I felt the lump rise in my throat, and my
mouth dried with fear. So that I could hardly keep the tears from
running, being heartily sorry for myself because I should never see
bonny Earlstoun and my mother again, or any one else in the pleasant
south country--and all on a business that I had no concern with, being
only some night-hawk trokings of Wat Gordon's.

But even as he glanced about him, Lochinvar saw where we could best
engage them; for in such things he had the captain's eye, swift and
inevitable. It was at the angle of the wall, in which is a wide archway
that leads into the enclosure of the Palace. The snow had drifted round
this arch a great sweep of rounded wreaths, and glistened smoothly white
in the moonbeams, but the paved gateway itself was blown clear. Wat
thrust me behind him, and, throwing down his cloak, cleared his sword
arm with a long sobbing intake of breath, which, having a certain great
content in it, was curious to hear.

I stood behind him in the dark of the archway, and there I first laid
down my ghastly burden in the corner, wrapping it in my cloak. I made my
pistols ready, and also loosened in my belt a broad Italian dagger,
shaped like a leaf, wherewith I meant to stick and thrust if any should
attempt to run in while I was standing on guard. Between me and the
light I could see Walter Gordon, armed in the German fashion, with his
rapier in one hand and his dagger in the other. Suddenly, through the
hush of waiting, came running footsteps; and men's figures darkened the
moonlight on the snow before the arch.

"Clash!" went the rapiers, and I could catch the glitter of the fire as
it flew from their first onset. Walter poised himself on his feet with a
quick alternate balancing movement, keeping his head low between his
shoulders, and his rapier point far out. He was in the dark, and those
about the mouth of the arch could not well see at what they were
striking, whereas he had them clear against the grey of the moonlit sky.

Steel had not stricken on steel three times when, swift as the flash of
the lightning when it shines from east to west, I saw Wat's long rapier
dart out, and a man fell forward towards him, clinking on the stones
with the jingle of concealed armour. Yet, armour or no, our Wat's rapier
had found its way within. Wat spurned the fellow with his foot, lest in
falling he should grip to pull him down, which was a common trick of the
time, and indeed sometimes resorted to without a wound. But the dark wet
stain his body left on the cobble-stones as it turned, told us that he
was sped surely enough.

In a moment the others had come up, and the whole archway seemed full of
the flicker of flashing swords. Wat's long arm wavered here and there,
keeping them all at bay. I could have cried the slogan for pride in him.
This was the incomparable sworder indeed, and John Varlet, that
misbegotten rogue, had not taught him in vain.

"Let off!" he cried to me, never taking his eyes from his foes. "Ease me
a little to the right. They are over heavy for my iron on that hand."

So with that, even as I was bidden, and because there was nothing else I
could do, I struck with my broad Italian dagger at a surly visage that
came cornerwise between me and the sky, and tumbled a tall fellow out of
an angle of the gateway on the top of the first, kicking like a rabbit.
The rest were a little dashed by the fall of these two. Still there were
four of them, and one great loon determinedly set his head down, and
wrapping his cloak on his arm, he rushed at my cousin, almost
overbearing him for the moment. He broke within Wat's guard, and the
swords of the rogue's companions had been in his heart, but just then
Lochinvar gave them another taste of his quality. Lightly leaping to the
side just out of the measure of the varlet's thrust, and reaching
sideways, he struck the man heavily on the shoulder with the dagger in
his left hand, panting with the force of the blow, so that he fell down
like the dead. At the same moment Wat leaned far forward, engaging all
the points of the other swords with his rapier.

They gave back at the quick unexpected attack, and the points of their
swords rose, as it seemed, for no more than a second. But in that
pulse-beat Wat's rapier shot out straight